the little dirt path through the woods was playful and mysterious.

old cedar trees towered above her, their exposed roots threatening to trip her if she wasn’t careful. she’d stubbed her toes on those roots many times.

the woods sheltered her from the hot sun in summer and frigid winds in the winter. she also escaped the multitude of bats buzzing her head on hot summer evenings.

she walked that little dirt path through the woods to grandma’s house almost daily. she’d skipped, run, laughed and cried walking through these trees hundreds of times as a little girl, a young woman, a teenager and adult.

grandma and grandpa lived in a small two-bedroom house. it was white with salmon-colored shutters and a detached garage. they built the practical abode for themselves after her parents married and she was born.

visitors entering the front door saw the television a few feet in front of them. a coat closet housing extra chairs was immediately on your right with a half-wall to the left, serving dual purpose as a bookshelf on its other side.

the living room furniture included a handsome taupe-colored sofa. its  fabric had a delicate, subtle pattern woven into it. there was also a wooden rocker and matching blue chairs with the same pattern as the sofa.

grandpa’s blue chair was next to the bookshelf, facing away from the large picture window. grandma’s blue chair was a rocker with a matching ottoman. she sat at the other end of the north-facing window. she sat in that chair for endless hours, using the abundance of natural light to crochet doilies, scarves and other wonders made with yarn and a crochet hook.

the back side of their house was more interesting, more colorful, less formal. after visitors wandered the little dirt path through the woods, the sidewalk appeared to guide them to the back door.

most folks walked up the few steps to enter the house this way. the back entry offered a small sink for washing up while the opposite wall offered a strategically placed closet for depositing smelly barn clothes. the basement stairs were straight ahead. several stairs on the right took you up through the kitchen door.

countless meals, cookies and loaves of homemade bread were cooked and baked in the small kitchen. the same number of card games were likely won and lost at the kitchen table. if that table talked, oh, the stories it would tell.

each growing season, grandma tended a massive garden. some years, it was next to a corn field, and some years it was soybeans, depending on the rotation. you’d find raspberry bushes, rhubarb plants, green peas, ground cherries, corn and kohlrabi. grandma had a spectacular variety of good things growing in the dirt.

grandpa could be found there periodically, mostly an unwilling helper. he often got in trouble with the tiller when he confused the garden plants with the weeds.

in the spring, summer and fall, they worked in the garden. grandma gave the orders, grandpa attempted to carry them out. it went badly at times. if the wind was just right, you’d hear them hollering at each other across the farm.

the south side of the house sheltered the real jewels: the zinias. she loved and remembered the zinnias grandma planted there each year. bold, brilliant and resilient, these laughing, sturdy flowers lasted deep into the fall until a hard frost took them out each year.

she had always been with these two, it seemed, especially grandma. she could not, in fact, remember ever being without them. their home was her second home only a few steps away. the small house was her safe place, the door always open for cookies and comfort.

she had countless memories of saturday nights spent watching ‘the lawrence welk show,’ eating fried sunfish and playing 500 at the kitchen table.

she watched elvis rise to fame on ‘the ed sullivan show’ and cried listening to wayne newton on the stereo. she had a crush on him. his songs offered love, drawing her in as she searched for more of it.

the fancy taupe sofa was her bed for sleepovers and fun, her sick bed when she was ill. grandma lovingly tucked her in each night she stayed there.

it was hard to reconcile the dichotomy, knowing the same woman who loved her so well was the same woman who cursed her before she was born. there was more to this story than she had been told.

grandma loved her and mothered her. she was constant and reliable. she applied mud to the bee stings, wiped her tear-stained eyes and face, cleaned and bandaged the scrapes and cuts. she put ice on the bruises after the cows kicked her in the barn at milking time. she mothered her. she loved her.

grandma was always there, just like the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies stashed in the basement chest freezer. they weren’t hidden well and disappeared like magic. grandma knew but she never let on.

one day, as an adult, she finally saw what she had not seen before.

father god had given her grandma as her momma.

she cried. and she was so grateful.

(copyright 2017 jane doe)

they saw each often, quickly becoming inseparable.

he was drawn to the light in her. she saw papa’s son in him.

papa gave her instruction. some was surprising, out of the box. but she knew it was him. spirit trained her to know.

jesus had her back, too. he told her so. she trusted him.

when he asked her to marry him, she was elated.

it looked different than many said it should look like.

spirit gave her words to confirm. she believed him instead.

they married with a small, simple ceremony.

and hell broke loose.

the fight for his soul was on. every demon with legal right to him came out of the shadows.

she listened for instructions from papa. this playing field was new to her.

she needed new strategy. new seeing. new hearing. new wisdom. it came as needed.

he offered up information about things in his past. she listened intently.

she saw that he hurt, that he carried guilt, remorse, shame. his load was heavy.

she kept a poker face on the outside. on the inside her heart beat faster and her eyes grew wide. even her internal eyebrows shot up often.

what was papa up to?

one morning, he left her alone for an hour while he walked the dog.

a program came on the television.

an american wife told how her husband led a double life.

the woman learned he was really a member of a new york mob family.

the wife told the interviewer how her husband gave his life to jesus over time when his deeds came to light.

she listened to the woman talk, taking deep breaths to remain calm.

spirit showed her things.

when the show ended, she called the number to pray with someone over what she had seen.

it was game on.

nothing would be as it was one hour earlier.

(copyright 2016 jane doe)

she knew her life was unusual, abnormal. she knew she was peculiar. for some in her circle, peculiar was an understatement. it didn’t matter anymore. maybe it never did.

she was trained by spirit through many books, many movies.

spirit taught her how to live life undercover, unseen, operating in stealth and hiddenness.

one set of books was a mystery trilogy. the heroine was an undercover agent.

she was a subject matter expert in one area, but was often called to work in areas outside her comfort zone.

papa reminded her of the teachings he brought her. he reminded her about the heroine. he showed her scenes from the trilogy when she needed them.

‘i will never ask you to do anything that alex was not asked to do.’

she drew in a breath when papa said it. there was no handbook for this work.

she recalled how alex walked into dangerous situations fearlessly.

she observed the wisdom with which she responded to threats and attacks.

alex always had the right help at the right time. expertise came to her as needed. wisdom was ever present. somehow, she survived every attempt on her life.

alex loved justice. she extended mercy. compassion flowed through her hands and feet.

righteous anger mingled with mercy and compassion in the worst of circumstances.

in one story, she was moved as alex saw the real man inside the russian mobster who’d kidnapped her. that same mobster would make peace with papa on his deathbed in a later story.

alex was there with him. she held his hand and helped him find his way home.

through this heroine’s fictional life, papa showed her his love for others knew no bounds, no limits.

this training groomed and prepared her to perceive and obey the unconventional direction papa would give her in the future.

it was time to be as faithful to papa as he was to her.

she asked him for this level of faithfulness.

her life was not ordinary.

but it was the life she was built for.

(copyright 2016 jane doe)

he came to pick her up in his little white car for their second date.

he was happy to see her.

she was happy to see him. she was guarded, too.

they drove out of the town, across the iconic green bridge.

fall was in full swing. it was dark outside.

they drove out of the city lights to a small island several miles away.

fear spoke to her, ‘no one will know where to look for you if anything goes wrong.’

she ignored the voice.

the island was dotted by yard lights illuminating single homes, small farms, some businesses.

he unpacked more stories as they drove.

the stories went on and on, one right after the other with no breath or break between them.

some were tragic, some unbelievable. others were simply horrific. silence of the lambs came to her mind as she listened.

she felt his trauma. she sensed the spirit that lingered around him.

pieces of his soul were held tight, locked down in specific places in time.

it was overwhelming, nearly too much to take in.

she was silent as he drove the car out to a fishing pier and parked it.

it was pitch dark.

he got out of the car.

suddenly, she was afraid.

the thought gripped her heart. ‘what if he brought me out here to kill me?’

it was possible. his family history was violent.

no one knew where she was.

he talked as he walked around the car.

a chained fence blocked the road in front of them.

he tried to unlock it, but he could not.

he got back in the car, still talking.

she breathed a sigh of relief as he started the engine.

‘thank god,’ she sighed silently.

streetlights lit their path again as they returned to town.

she relaxed, taking some deep breaths.

she told him she’d been afraid he was going kill her.

in all sincerity, he assured her he would never do anything to hurt her.

he took her home to the stone hut.

she was safe with him.

for now.

(copyright 2106 jane doe)

she settled in with the small family, spending her days with two little boys, chickens and rabbits.

when she was alone, she would walk the property and sing over it. there was a large stage area in their backyard. it was easy to stand up there and sing to an audience of none, save for a few neighbors, angels and a cloud of witnesses she could not see.

back where she used to live, people she thought she could trust were doing bad things. her belongings, yet to be moved, were methodically taken from what had been her home by the friend she had taken in when she needed a home. the ‘friend’ had turned on her the moment she’d stepped on the train.

betrayal is never easy to process. she defaulted to forgiveness first as she witnessed every word spoken and every act committed against her.

it was not safe to go back to attempt to reverse what was in motion. she sensed it was better to take the losses. papa would restore. he was better at it. might as well let that all go.

she had little cash, so she learned grace in accepting help from others until circumstances changed.

on a sunday afternoon, the lady who owned the stone hut dropped her off at a church with a food shelf. there was a line of people waiting for the doors to open.

he rode up on a bicycle. he was thin, haggard looking, lacking nutrition, lacking love.

he noticed her. she noticed him.

he had a big, brilliant smile. he was charming. he knew it.

he pulled out his pity card out of his wallet right off the bat, showing her photos of his former wife and daughter.

she had his number when he told her they’d left him years earlier.

he told this story to anyone who would listen.

she heard spirit remind her to be ‘wise as a serpent, gentle as a dove.’

she knew. she saw. she had compassion.

they exchanged telephone numbers.

when they each got their share of food, they said goodbye outside the church.

he said he would call her.

she walked down the street pulling the little cart of canned goods and other foodstuffs behind her.

he watched her walk until he could no longer see her in the distance.

she could feel it.

(copyright 2016 jane doe)

papa had plans. he had purposes. he always does.

often, there are layers and layers to his plans and purposes, but they are always good.

she road the train across the country with less than two hundred lira.

her ticket was only one-way. this would be an extended visit.

as her train pulled into the station, she hoped to see the one person she knew in the unfamiliar town. that person never appeared. it was okay.

papa had her covered. help was ready and waiting for her.

employees at the train station helped her find a hostel to stay in the first night. they even drove her there.

on her first night, papa asked her if she would move there. she took a long breath and suggested they talk about it.

over a meal, papa told her why she was equipped to do it. she listened to him, to see what he saw, to hear what he knew she could do.

it was a bold, risky move, one that he had prepared her for over several years time.

she said yes.

after several days of shuffling around, she landed with a family that needed her help.

she watched the children. she cleaned the house. she fed and cared for the animals.

her quarters were a stone hut with walls twelve inches thick. it had a wood stove and an old mattress. it was cozy, even comfortable.

she lit the stove on cold nights. she worshipped. she prayed. she felt delight.

some nights, she would go to the river and sing over the city.

papa was there, too. he was always there.

she was aware of battles all around her.

she also knew she was surrounded by angels.

at long last, she lived in her own narnia.

it was time.

and it was good.

(copyright 2016 jane doe)